Chapter 29 The Old Caroline
THE OLD CAROLINE
The VIP cabin was—naturally—nicer than my actual apartments in New Orleans. Mahogany trim. Sconces. Cushions filled with what I can only assume was crushed angel feathers. I tried to stay annoyed. Why did that fool girl want to take so much sugar?
But Lessie fell asleep almost immediately on a velvet chaise, hands resting on her rounded belly. She snored delicately, like a woman who had earned her peace. I would have allowed her the rest, except that left me alone. With him.
Major leaned against the opposite wall, his arms crossed, one boot resting lightly against the trim like a villain from a novel.
“So,” I said, attempting nonchalance, “is this the part where you arrest me?”
“Would you like to be arrested?” he asked, too casually.
“I— No.”
“Sounded like a maybe.”
“It wasn’t.”
He twitched his shoulder.
I folded and refolded my gloves in my lap. “How did you know my name?” I ask.
“Everybody in Carsondale knows your name,” he said quietly.
“How?” I asked.
“You”—his eyes caught mine—“are marrying my fool brother.”
I had gotten engaged accidentally. A perfectly innocent act of showing off.
Eliza’s sister Janey had taken ill at my family’s borrowed country house—No.
7 Netherfield, a name far too grand for a place with peeling shutters and chickens in the front yard—and the whole neighborhood had taken it as an opportunity to hover.
There were broths and herbs and overlong visits.
Lil’ Charlie, of course, was there every afternoon, sitting by the fire like some tragic suitor.
Toussaint D’Arcy came, and at first, I thought we would commiserate over the Beno?ts—their loud voices, their borrowed house, their endless parade of mismatched tea sets. I thought he’d sit beside me, sigh meaningfully, and remember who he was supposed to choose.
He arrived with stationery. Cream stock, monogrammed.
A stack of correspondence he needed to send on behalf of the family.
I offered to help. I’d always had the neatest script, the sharpest French, the most gracious turns of phrase.
That day, I wrote to Toussaint’s little sister.
To distant cousins. A minister. A retired teacher.
And at the very bottom of the pile, to a bachelor cousin out west—a man in Carsondale looking for a wife.
Ealy Washington.
I addressed the letter with the soft authority of a woman doing someone a favor.
I signed it on behalf of the family, of course—but I suppose a little too much of my charm slipped between the lines.
I mentioned myself as a lovely intellect.
I had imagined Toussaint reading it aloud, like he had done the others.
Maybe pausing at a turn of phrase and smiling.
But then Eliza came through the door, all bluster and wind, and his attention evaporated like steam from a teacup.
Still, I must have made an impression. Because three weeks later, a reply arrived.
Not for Toussaint.
For me.
A letter from Ealy Washington, addressed to Miss Caroline Bliguet, full of admiration for my clarity, my elegance, my “refined thought.” He said I sounded like a woman who would make a fine wife.
Two weeks after that, the proposal came. Tidy. Respectful. Practical.
And I said yes.
Because I wanted to wake Toussaint from whatever spell he was under.
Because I thought it might make Eliza blink.
Because I’d spent years being excellent with nothing to show for it.
And now I’m supposed to believe Ealy—the man who chose correctly—was the fool?
I would not.
On the train, I narrowed my eyes at Major. “What’s so foolish about your brother? He’s got good-enough taste.” And I finally stopped folding my gloves and placed them on the table.
“He was desperate, you see,” he said at last. “Sent out letters to five exceptionally classy women. Thought he’d get one. Maybe two, if fortune was kind. He had no idea so many would say yes.”
My heart slowed to a crawl. Not shattered. Just… stunned. Why was it always me being forced to prove myself in a crowded field?
I sank into the overstuffed mattress of the sleeper cabin, letting my head tilt back against the velvet cushion. The train’s rhythm, that quiet mechanical lull, worked its way into my chest like a spell. Calm me, please.
How did women manage these infernal clothes on long train rides?
I imagined myself in the back with the chickens, easing the stays on my bodice to rest. The corset pressed like an iron band against my ribs, my petticoat bunched uncomfortably under my legs.
There was no grace in this, no ease. This was the price of pretending to belong in first class: The performance never stopped. Not even when you were alone.
I unpinned my hat and sighed. Let the hair fall, dark and straightened, loose around my shoulders. My scalp sang at the release.
Correction. I wasn’t alone. Lessie was passed out asleep on the chair, and Major was… well, looking.
His gaze flicked to my hair. It stayed there. Then back to my eyes.
“So you’re here to turn me right around?” I asked, massaging my scalp. “Tell me your brother doesn’t want me anymore?”
My voice was strong, like the old me.
Lordy, why am I already calling myself the old Caroline. I had been on this train for four days, and New Orleans already felt like a lifetime away.
He shrugged, and it was a heavy slow roll of his shoulders.
“Not turning you around. Worse. I’m here to tell him you are the best of them.
” Major’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “You’re the one he told everyone about.
You are the prize. The others were insurance.
He’s a wealthy man, and he wanted to be cautious. ”
His words landed like a slap. Cautious was what I was. Before I started running around with fake porters/bounty hunters and teenage entrepreneurs.
“How many women are on their way to Carsondale?”
“Three now.”
“Now?” My eyes bugged out, and my mind raced.
“It was seven, but four were unsuitable. I just met you and couldn’t intercept the other two. Bertha Wallace and Elle Mae.”
“So Bertha and Elle are both on their way to Colorado? From God knows where, thinking they’re marrying Ealy next week?” My voice pitched high, wild around the edges. “Is that what you’re telling me?”
I stared at him, at the unbothered calm in his face, while my future unraveled like cheap thread. Everything I had planned—every step, every calculated yes—slipping through my fingers like cloudy bathwater.
“I can’t believe this,” I whispered.
Major stepped forward. Just one step. But in the lush, compact VIP parlor room it was a scandalous proximity. “It won’t happen like that. I’m going to tell Ealy of all the women, it’s you. I will make sure you’re the woman he chooses.”
“Why?” I asked. My voice was thinner than I meant it to be. “Because you met me?”
His gaze held mine for just a breath too long. And it made me feel like a train was going right through my belly.
“No. Because I’ve seen you.”
I straightened my spine. I wasn’t some trembling damsel, even if my hands were shaking. I meant to scoff. Truly. I meant to lift my chin and make some clever remark about his needing spectacles.
Instead, I swallowed, and the sound seemed loud in my ears.
The train groaned beneath us, iron wheels grinding toward a future I no longer recognized.
“Well,” I said, smoothing the front of my skirt, though there wasn’t a wrinkle to be found. “Let’s hope Ealy’s eyesight is just as sharp.”
And I turned to fold down the bed before I could see if Major was still watching me.
But I felt it. The heat of it. The pull.
Something had shifted. And I couldn’t say then whether I was stepping toward safety or straight into the fire of a scandal.